


Toast

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: Forever (TV)
Genre: Breakfast, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 11:45:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7572913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breakfast after some boundaries have been crossed. </p><p>Set sometime after episode 13.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toast

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time in this fandom. Please be gentle!

The pink fingers of dawn had started to creep across the New York skyline when Jo blinked awake and sat up, groggy. She pushed a hand through her hair and then flopped back on the pillows, squeezing her eyes shut and then opening them again.

She lifted the edge of the coverlet and peered down at herself.

Oh yeah. She was 100% butt naked. Last night hadn’t been some sort of hedonistic dream. She and Dr Morgan – _Henry –_ had crossed just about all the boundaries that could have been crossed. Professionalism had been unceremoniously tossed out of the window, where it had bounced, once, and landed in a nearby dumpster.

Jo shut her eyes and wondered , if she stayed in bed long enough, would she just melt into the bed and disappear?

Noise from the kitchen made her open her eyes again. Henry was down there. Doing things. Making food, maybe. What the hell time was it?

At the thought, her cop’s stomach, always ready to eat, whatever the weather, season, or variety of dead body, stirred, and she pulled on some pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, padding down the stairs on bare feet.

He stood at her counter, dressed in waistcoat, shirt and tie, looking for all the world like he belonged there.

Her table was set neatly, two plates, butter knives, butter dish – she had no idea she even _owned_ a butter dish – a teapot, mugs steaming with tea, a milk jug, and the man who had done it all hummed Elgar’s Cello Concerto with his back to her. She’d had quite the education in classical pieces since making his acquaintance.

How did he do it? She wondered, mind reeling. It couldn’t have been five hours ago that he’d had her helplessly sobbing his name into the curve of his neck as he pushed her over the cliff of sensation and into an orgasm that had hollowed her out beyond reason, beyond thought. And while she watched him, her own body and mind still in freefall, he calmly buttered toast for her breakfast.

She couldn’t process it. She barely knew her own name after last night, after the world had narrowed to the stroke of his hands over her bare skin, the gentle murmur of his voice, deep with arousal, the warmth of him over her in the darkness.

He was the first man she’d slept with since Sean, the first man who’d _meant_ a damn thing since Sean, and her brain was short-circuiting.

Henry turned and she waited for the easy, distant professional smile. The smart quip with some little-known medical fact, or some witty observation about the symmetry of her face.

But instead he just set the steaming plate of toast on the table, and his eyes held a warm, inviting mix of welcome and vulnerability.

“Detective. I took the liberty of preparing breakfast.” He pulled a chair out for her, helped her in. The move was so gentlemanly that she hesitated a second.

And she knew, as he sat down opposite her, the corner of his mouth tipping up into a hopeful sort of smile, that it definitely wasn’t the last time the boundaries would be crossed.


End file.
